


Good-bye, Dear, and Amen

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Urban Legends, What Is Wrong With ME, sociopathic eames, this is going to hurt, wrong wrong wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brain isn’t working properly, but still he tries to remember how he got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good-bye, Dear, and Amen

**Author's Note:**

> My take on a classic urban legend. Fairly slasher movie. I really feel like I should put a lot more warnings - let’s just say there is full-on psycho-ness, so if that’s not your bag, I beg you to steer clear of this. 
> 
> Title from the song "Just One Of Those Things"

~*~

Arthur is cold.

This is the first thing that registers. He can’t hear any ambient sound, he can’t feel his legs or arms or fingers or body. His brain isn’t working properly; he tries to grasp and hold consciousness, but it slides away, thoughts slippery and thick.

 _Drugged._ That manages to pop to the surface, then sinks away like a drowning man, until he’s forgotten it even crossed his mind.

He must drift away and come back to some sort of awareness, because the cold is worse now, biting, stabbing, painful and all-encompassing. 

Only through sheer strength of will and vast stubbornness is Arthur able to force his eyes open. His vision is blurry; he tries to raise a hand to rub his eyes clear, but his arm is weighted down by a thousand tiny pinpricks of agonizing cold so pure that it burns.

He’s no more successful at lifting his head, so Arthur moves just his eyes, stretching the limits of his peripheral vision. He’s in a bathroom; a very nice, spacious bathroom, from the looks of it. Possibly a hotel? Certainly not his own apartment; certainly not a bathroom he recognizes. 

His brain isn’t working properly, but still he tries to remember how he got here. 

Last night he had dinner with Eames at a trendy Thai/Mexican fusion place. Arthur had curry enchildas; Eames had pad thai with chorizo and salsa verde. Eames had played footsie with him under the table, and Arthur had let him.

They’d gone back to the hotel, where Arthur had finally given into months’ worth of flirting, and the sex had been _spectacular_ , but what Arthur now recalled the most clearly was the kissing: Eames’ hot, wet mouth, demanding, yet infinitely gentle, as if afraid that, even now, Arthur was going to suddenly turn him down. Eames had murmured, "so perfect, you’re so perfect, you’re exactly what I need," and Arthur had been embarrassed at the hyperbole, but wasn’t about to say anything that might make Eames stop kissing him.

Arthur had fallen asleep with his face crushed against Eames’ neck, and the next thing he remembered was the cold. Unless someone grabbed him while they slept - well within the realm of possibility, of course - this isn’t a dream.

His head is still far too heavy to lift, but finally he’s able to at least turn it- or at least, shift its heaviness so that his head lolls to the side, and the dull thud of his skull against porcelain is painful, but a welcome change from the fucking _cold_.

There’s a huge, ornate mirror directly opposite wherever Arthur is, hung over a long marble vanity, and there are words scrawled on that mirror. Arthur lets out an unknowing little whimper; the idea of reading actually makes him queasy. But it’s a message for him, he knows that without a doubt, so he tackles it slowly, one small section at a time.

_Hello dearest..._

Oh thank Christ, it’s from Eames. Eames knows he’s here.

_I should tell you to ring for an ambulance, however..._

Ambulance? Why would he need an ambulance? Well, there’s the hypothermia.

_...it would be pointless, as shortly I’ll be back for the other one..._

Arthur frowns, narrowing his eyes at the mirror. The other one? The other one what?

_...and I’ve nicked your mobile, anyhow. Ta!_

This is when Arthur notices a shine of a steel blade, carelessly thrown atop the vanity.

This is when he notices the pool of blood on the white tile floor, the trail of red that leads towards where he’s lying, and beyond the closed door.

This is when he’s finally able to lift his head; when he finds that he’s submerged in a bathtub full of ice, sees the diluted pink of still more blood seeping from the gaping hole where his kidney should be.

This is when he hears a door shut, hears someone whistling "Just One of Those Things".

When Eames calls out, "Darling, I’m back!"


End file.
